Arkhan The Cruel vs Drizzt Do'Urden
by oharrop
Summary: Rumble in Avernus: the powerful paladin of Tiamat, Arkhan The Cruel, finds himself facing off against the legendary drow ranger, Drizzt Do'Urden. Inspired by the art of @silvenger.


The rot stank. Decay had slithered its way up the veins of his forearm, blood of fire becoming black ickor, scale and muscle becoming withered gristle, strength transmuted into sickness. Arkhan the Cruel had to look down at a hand that wasn't his, and watch in vain as the rest of his arm, the rest of his body, became equally unfamiliar. It was an exacted price, and yet one he would have paid a thousand times over, willingly would he have cut off every chunk of his body until all that was left was the hand that gripped Fane-Eater, would have let himself fall away into ash if that would free Her. Yet still She lamented behind walls he could not break down, still was Arkhan the Cruel a key ill-suited to the lock of Her shackles. Vecna was slain and some of his powers transferred to Arkhan, powers that could have reshaped the world as the hand wrought it, but evidently it was not enough, never was it enough. And how the rot stank.

Arkhan blew a sigh through his nostrils and stood. The huge red dragonborn had been scouring the battlemaps scattered across his desk for too long and he moved to the window to escape them for a moment; fighting the wars was one thing, with axe in hand and fire behind his teeth, feeling the blood of his enemies splash about in rivers around his feet, but plotting them was another tedious matter.

The window was simply an arched alcove cut from the black stone of his tower, for there was no weather in Avernus that glass could keep at bay, save for the hot winds that Arkhan only found a comfort when he had to be cooped up in the tower. The Black Spire, forged of obsidian and dark quartz, stood proud amongst a sea of blood-red sand that swept up to the foothills of a basalt mountain. The tower stood some hundred feet tall, hewn into a rough cylinder with an assortment of chambers that wound around a central staircase, housing Arkhan's private quarters, armoury, war-room, as well as rooms for several of his allies, other devotees of Her. Behind the Spire, set into the mountain, sprawled a cave mouth that drooled molten gold; this was the entrance to Her prison, the gold the remnants of Her hoard.

As Arkhan looked upon Her prison he was reminded of his purpose. Guilt knotted his stomach, guilt over his failures to free Her, but before Arkhan could steel his resolve against it, pain shot through his left hand and stabbed his heart. The hand fingered his weaknesses like a bard plays a lyre. Scorn drew a glaze across Arkhan's eyes as he stared at the cavernous jail, refusing to even acknowledge the presence of the Ascended that now cursed him. There was only Her, he silently reminded himself. Only Her.

Changó gave a low growl as he landed on the balcony on the other side of the tower, the manticore's bat-like wings folding with a soft flap. Arkhan crossed the room and stepped out onto the balcony, reaching out a hand, his own hand, to rub the manticore's shaggy mane. Changó's lips, set in a face vaguely humanoid face, peeled back into something like a smile, revealing several rows of needle-like teeth. Manticore's were notoriously difficult to train, stubborn creatures gifted with little save for base predatory instincts, but Arkhan had broken Changó, mastered the beast, not easy even with the magical items he had at his disposal, for no reason other than the challenge it presented. Arkhan's reward for his time and efforts with Changó were evident whenever the two fought together.

The dragonborn looked past his pet, out upon the plains of Avernus, stretching out his back and shrugging torpor from his shoulders. He wore neat robes of black and gold, embroidered with Her five-headed dragon sigil, and although he hated to be out of his armour, Arkhan was forced to reckon with practicality when shackled to his desk during the planning of campaigns. He reached up to scratch his left arm, just above the elbow, irritated by the insurgent decay, and found himself disgusted as scales, once blood-red now pale and blackened to the edges, came away beneath his claws. Arkhan watched the scales fall, like leaves from a tree with winter ahead. Weakness.

He turned as if to return into the tower, but the way Changó tensed, the way the back of his neck suddenly burned, the way the little finger on the left hand twitch erratically, stopped him. Arkhan looked up, and saw the whirl of scimitars already upon him.

Drizzt Do'Urden had had little difficulty scaling the Black Spire. Though the tower was tall, the drow was athletic, and the Spire was so rough in its construction that handholds were easy to find amongst the obsidian and quartz blocks. His piwafwi kept Drizzt hidden from any that might be looking up at the tower from the outside, augmenting his natural stealth in such a way that even if a thousand pairs of eyes had been following Drizzt's ascent, none but a handful would have even detected the movements of this little spider. The ranger had a penchant for items like the piwafwi, favouring the subtle powers lent to his already formidable skills over anything too flashy, and the only object of any overt magical capabilities now rested in a deep pocket over his breast.

The drow picked his way carefully to the very top of the Black Spire, and, despite his reservations, allowed himself a glance toward the ground. It was a very long way down. Drizzt swung himself up onto the lip of the tower, perching gracefully on the wide base of the conical, shingled roof. He skirted around until he faced the south, if such things as direction existed in this plane, and settled over a balcony some thirty feet down like a gargoyle at rest. Drizzt slowed his breathing, letting a hand fall to the hilt of one of the scimitars that hung at his belt. As his eyes scanned the plains before him, following the ominous shape of a dragon blotted against the ruby sky, and then another, and another, his mind wandered further than the hellish vista before him. The drow allowed himself a moment of rumination upon the purpose of this excursion into the first layer of the Nine Hells, and then immediately wished he hadn't as memories of a slain friend flickered behind his lavender eyes.

The Oathbreaker would die. None more would fall to conquests lent false divinity by imaginations infantile and wicked.

Drizzt had never met Tiamat personally, and neither did he intend to, for he had known of enough beings masquerading as goddesses to realise that any who followed them were both foolish and dangerous; a terrible combination. In his struggles against Lolth, the arachnid queen venerated by the dark elves, Drizzt had come to terms that some who might have been might heroes would fall to the temptations evil offered, and had taken it upon himself to exterminate them when he had to. And it appeared that he would have to with Arkhan the Cruel.

Even the name left a bitter taste in Drizzt's mouth.

'_Cruel'_, he spat allowed in whispered voice. Who would boast of such a title? But something twinged in the bottom of the ranger's heart, and he was forced to remind himself that he might have found himself on a similar path had he not wrought control of his own fate from his family and from Lolth.

_Drizzt the Cruel_, he mused in disgust.

His focus snapped back to the present as the soft-beat of leather wings caught his attention. Below, a huge manticore had just landed on the balcony, his leonine body rippling with muscle and a spiny tail poised above it. The beast looked almost languide now as it folded its wings in and gave a growl, but Drizzt knew the monstrosity was anything but. After a moment, the huge red dragonborn emerged from his war-room, a terrifying opponent even without armour or weapons, and Drizzt steeled himself with caution, almost dropping a globe of darkness over the Oathbreaker and his beast right then, but held when Arkhan reached out to pet the manticore. His lavender eyes narrowed. The relationship between warrior and companion was known to Drizzt, and his hand went instinctively to his breast pocket, feeling for the little figurine it held. Guenhwyvar seemed to call to him, through the onyx figurine and from even the astral plane, but not in bloodlust to be set upon the figure below, merely with longing to be beside Drizzt when he had to face such powerful opponents.

The drow frowned and sniffed the air. The dragonborn stank as if he were rotting alive.

As Arkhan turned away from the manticore and made to go back inside, the ranger realised patience and stealth would aid him no longer; he had gotten as close to the Oathbreaker as he could.

Drizzt drew his twin scimitars in one slick motion and dropped, outlining his foes in the purplish glimmer of Faerie Fire right as he came upon them.

In the fraction of the second between the Faerie Fire enveloping him and the dark elf's scimitar slashing down toward his head, Arkhan gave none of that time to panic, not even to concern over being unarmed and unarmoured, but merely raised the Hand of Vecna, his left hand up, and pointed at the drow. Arkan felt his knees buckle and the acidic burn sweep through his arm and chest as he expended some of the Ascended's power in one necrotic burst. Finger of Death should have wrought his attacker a corpse, but the drow came too fast.

With a flick of Twinkle, the scimitar in his left hand, Drizzt severed the decaying index finger of Arkhan's appropriated hand and the spell threatening to destroy him was lost. Drizzt landed on the balcony and rolled to the side to break his fall, springing up to stand between Arkhan and the doorway back inside. Changó roared and ready himself to lunge at Drizzt, but his dragonborn master was faster, and not so easily deterred by losing a finger and a powerful spell. Arkhan loosed a ferocious roar and breathed a cone of fire that blasted the dark elf, expecting his attacker to be somewhat charred if not rendered a blackened skeleton. But as the flames subsided, the drow remained unfettered, a cocked smile on his face as the scimitar in his right hand, Icingdeath, absorbed the flames. Arkhan felt the rage within bubbling out.

Drizzt ran at his foe, scimitars extended in front of him, meaning to skewer Arkhan, but Changó leapt to his master's defense, forcing Drizzt into a dive to the ground to escape the powerful swipe of the manticore's huge paw. It was all the opening Arkhan needed. He sprinted back into the tower, heading for the central staircase and the armoury on the floor just below.

Drizzt sent a swift kick into the manticore's nose, followed by a slash across the eyes, the beast howling in pain, allowing Drizzt to wriggle back and clamber to his feet. He saw Arkhan at the top of the staircase, practically throwing himself down them. Drizzt pulled the onyx figurine from his pocket and dropped it to his feet.

'Guenhwyvar', he cried. 'I need you!'

A puff of black smoke heralded the panther's arrival, and from the distracting plume Guenhwyvar pounced onto Changó, knocking the manticore back and almost off balance, her claws tearing chunks from its shoulder as her jaws set to work on the base of one huge wing. Drizzt smiled and took off after Arkhan, the ranger moving so fast he was upon his enemy before Arkhan had even ran down two steps.

Arkhan swore under his breath; this cocky brat was quick, too quick. He needed slowing down. Arkhan raised the now four-fingered Hand of Vecna and expended yet more of the artefact's magical capabilities, almost crippled by the sickness that pulsed through his veins in response. This time, Drizzt's scimitars could not save him, and a wave of lethargy came over him, his feet suddenly dragging on the floor in a manner that almost tripped him and his scimitars outstretched toward the dragonborn moved as if the room were filled with molasses.

It was Arkhan's turn to smile, and he disappeared below, into the armoury.

Drizzt tried to follow, but he moved sluggishly, leaden. Very slowly, a frown came over his handsome face, and he chastised himself for expecting Arkhan the Cruel to fight anyway but dirty, and then his slowed mind recalled attacking his opponent when he was without arms or shielding. Unarmed indeed, Drizzt finally scowled, a hand was all this foe needed.

Despite the surprise advantage Guenhwyvar had had over Changó, the great manticore was now regaining some dominance, using his bulk to crush the lithe panther against the outside wall of the Black Spire. But Changó's size was also a disadvantage, for sleek Guenhwyvar began using it against the monstrosity, slithering over his back to rake his hide with her claws from a position his huge jaws could not reach her. The manticore though still had his deadliest weapon at his disposal and with another howl, lashed out with his tail, skewering Guenhwyvar on the barbed spines. With a flick of his muscles, he flung the impaled panther off his back with enough force that Guenhwyvar, despite her scrambling at the balcony railing, found herself plummeting from the tower. If manticores had been blessed with intelligence, Changó would have let her simply fall to her death, but the monstrous creature unfurled his enormous wings and dived into the air after her. Changó tucked himself into a streamlined dive-bomb, and caught up to Guenhwyvar in an instant, snatching the panther in mid-air, like a hawk snatches a sparrow.

Arkhan first reached for the obsidian dragon-plate armour. It would have taken a normal soldier several precious minutes to get into normal armour, but normal had never been a word used to describe Arkhan the Cruel, and as he forced his clawed hand into the right gauntlet, the rest of the armour began to animate around him, each piece of the dark metal swirling through the air and fastening itself to him. In but a moment, he was armoured. He grabbed Fane-Eater, his razor-sharp battle axe, and set himself, one leg behind the other, ready to charge when the damned dark elf made it down the stairs. Arkhan imagined Drizzt's head mounted on his war-room wall.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, Drizzt made it down into the armoury. His lavender eyes took in the racks of weapons lining the walls, the sparring area, the suits of armour on their frames, and was reminded of a similar room, back in Menzoberranzan where his father had trained him. But there was little time for reminiscing. The slowing effect was suddenly gone, and Drizzt dropped into a defensive stance, regaining his fleet-footedness. But Arkhan had not given his enemy even a fraction of a second to utilise his speed, for he had dropped the Slow spell only to imbue Fane-Eater with thunderous energy. Arkhan smote Drizzt a might blow deep into the top of his shoulder, the ranger instinctively bringing up his scimitars, barely fast enough to stop the axe splitting him in two, but too slow to save his collarbone. Arkhan detonated the thunderous energy in the axe and Drizzt was blown to the floor, the booming wave pummelling every cell in his body. The dragonborn stamped a huge foot on Drizzt's chest and raised his battleaxe again, burying it into the hapless dark elf's chest.

Blood had soaked his mithril armour before Drizzt shook his daze, but shake it he did. Twinkle and Icingdeath shot out, the curved adamantine blades crossing to each find a crack in Arkhan's armour, each scimitar puncturing the tough scales of the dragonborn's thighs. Arkhan bellowed in pain, and Drizzt saw in his eyes flashes of white-hot anger. Drizzt twisted his blades and Arkhan was forced to relinquish his position above Drizzt, forced to pull himself off the twin scimitars, allowing the ranger to scamper back to his feet and at scimitar's length from Arkhan. The drow recognised a rage in Arkhan, and perhaps this was something Drizzt could use to his advantage; if he could wear his enemy down enough to send him into a fit of anger, that would mean Arkhan would be without his formidable set of spells. It would also mean he'd be harder to hurt, and harder still to take a hit from and survive.

Drizzt didn't get any further in his strategizing as Arkhan lunged at him. Fane-Eater came down in an arc that sought to cleave Drizzt's skull, and only lightning reflexes kept that fate from becoming reality. Drizzt caught the axe in the crux of his crossed scimitars and glowered through the crossed blades at his enemy.

'I'm going to put you down!' Drizzt yelled.

Arkhan sneered. 'You're certainly trying your best.'

His incredible strength keeping Drizzt beneath Fane-Eater, even through just his one good hand, Arkhan struck Drizzt with his left, Vecna's hand, and forfeit the last of the magical energy within in an effort he knew was unlikely to work. Necrosis once again weakened Arkhan and the dark elf shrugged off his press, fortifying himself against the feeble sleepiness and resisting the magic easily, whipping Twinkle out in a wide strike that sliced the retreating Arkhan across the nostrils. Drizzt bought Icingdeath up then, the scimitar rushing point to the sky to pierce through the bottom of Arkhan's jaw, only unable to inflict the grizzly wound when the dragonborn blasted Drizzt with yet more flames, this time bursting forth in response to the bloody gash now stinging Arkhan's nose. The Oathbreaker's Hellish Rebuke forced Drizzt to take a step back as the heat bit at him, his frostbrand blade absorbing the fire but not the boiling _whoosh_ of air that singed Drizzt's white eyebrows.

Arkhan lunged, throwing out two hacking swipes with his battle-axe, the first of which Drizzt dodged, but Arkhan's swift and ferocious backhand caught the drow in the midriff, the mithril armour protecting its elven wearer from most of the damage but not the sheer bludgeoning force of Arkhan's attack. The paladin paraded Fane-Eater in a series of flourishes, a smile licking across his lips. This was going well. The smile vanished; it was going too well, for no imbecile with a couple of daggers could find his way to the Black Spire in an attempt to assassinate Arkhan the Cruel, just to fall so quickly. The dark elf must have known he'd have been in for the fight of his life.

Drizzt dropped a globe of darkness on Arkhan then, utilising his innate abilities. He positioned the spell on the rotting left hand of his foe, so that he could not so easily step out of it. Drizzt let Arkhan thrash about in the dark for a moment, gathering his breath. The drow closed his eyes and counted down from three.

He ran into the darkness.

Fighting blind in this way tipped the battle in Drizzt's favour. The ranger was blindingly quick as it was, and now that Arkhan was actually blinded, the results were devastating. Deep in the Underdark, Drizzt had honed his skills at fighting without sight, and in some cases had found his vision a distraction and even a disadvantage. He drew upon that experience now.

Icingdeath and Twinkle whirled so fast they hummed. The scimitars slashed across Arkhan as Drizzt circled his opponent, mostly skittering across the heavy armour with metallic crashes, but on several occasions in the brief flurry the curved blades found some purchase in the thin gaps between the plate, allowing Drizzt not to slash, but to puncture. He pressed in deep as Twinkle caught the edge of the breastplate on Arkhan's left, Drizzt stepping forward to drive the scimitar home, thrusting in to the hilt. The dragonborn began a howl that ended in a gurgle of blood. Arkhan lashed out and sundered Drizzt up the side of the head, the heavy axe knocking its target to the ground as the keen edge cut off his ear and cracked his skull.

Drizzt lost ahold of the darkness and the foes could once again look upon each other. They were in a sorry state. Arkhan had deep slashes across his face and scores across his armour, but the deepest wound, the puncture through his chest, was bleeding profusely, blood pouring down the black metal plate and spattering upon the armoury floor. Drizzt too was severely hurt, with his crushed collarbone, deep gash to his chest and torso, and now the bleeding scrape up the left side of his head.

They both looked to the drow's bloodied ear on the floor.

'I've ruined your pretty face,' Arkhan growled mockingly.

Drizzt didn't quite hear the remark.

Changó held his dive even with Guenhwyvar now in his grasp. Not ten feet above the ground his great bat-like wings at last snapped out and he released the panther. But Changó had undone the killing blow he had seemingly already dealt, and now Guenhwyvar hung on, her claws buried in the manticore's powerful fore-limbs. Changó brought his tail down behind and beneath himself, sweeping it up to stab the panther again, and only then did Guenhwyvar release her grasp, landing on her feet and looking up to see Changó impale himself on the spines of his tale, a boney spike jutting into his chest. The manticore came crashing to the ground in a heap, and though he was wounded, Changó soon righted himself, rounding on his prey.

The two mighty companions faced each other. Guenhwyvar hissed and scratched twice at Changó's face, forcing the manticore to rear back and roar. He feigned a lunge, rocking Guenhwyvar back a little, enough for Changó to bring around his tail in a whipping arc to thrash his opponent with the knot of spines at the tail's end. Guenhwyvar rolled over in the sand, her slick black fur matted with pooling blood streaming from the slashes all across her back and torso. Guenhwyvar tensed every muscle in her body for one last attack.

The panther pounced. The manticore, hampered by the deep, self-inflicted puncture to his chest, sent a swipe of his paw at her, but found no mark. Guenhwyvar's snarling maw tore into Changó's thick neck, her first bite tearing free a chunk of flesh, the second clamping onto vital lifelines.

Changó thrashed wildly, wings extending and tail spines raking gouges into the hot sand, but Guenhwyvar could not be loosened. Even as the manticore's enormous claws scored horrendous gashes in her, the big black cat's bite remained locked, tongue feeling hot blood pour from her victim's artery and precious air stealing out through the perforated windpipe. Eventually, the manticore succumbed, falling dead after several minutes of struggle.

Guenhwyvar, through curious yellow eyes, watched the expired monstrosity for a few more seconds, before turning back to the tower. She limped desperately forward, needing to find Drizzt.

The drow refused to allow himself to feel the pain flashing through his body. He glared at Arkhan, and the huge dragonborn, no less imposing now that he had suffered a wound that would have slayed many other a combatant, glared right back. Drizzt put all his weight onto his front leg, ready to charge, scimitars out before him, the razor tips of the curved blades almost touching. He exploded at Arkhan.

In the moments after suffering the mortal wound through his chest, Arkhan had been debating how best to use the most powerful spell in his arsenal; much of him wished to blast Drizzt with a Blight of necrotic power, and ensure that neither of them walked away from this fight, but another part of him, speaking in a quieter, five-sided voice, told him he needed to live. Arkhan was not done yet.

As the dark elf came at him, the Oathbreaker muttered the words and the Death Ward came upon him, sheltering him from any finality Drizzt's blows might impose, and allowing Arkhan now to batter the drow with everything he had. He would see this intruder dead, or he would see himself live to kill them another day.

Arkhan braced, knowing he hadn't the speed to match Drizzt, and let the ranger come. A wicked arc of Twinkle busied Fane-Eater with a block, but Icingdeath came in high, slashing along the top of Arkhan's armour where the top of his neck was exposed. Again and again, Drizzt's twin blades came bearing down upon Arkhan, low and high, poking at the gaps in his armour, slashing at his face, tearing into the scales red with heritage and blood. Fane-Eater moved as fast as the dragonborn could, and his skill in battle saved him the full force of Drizzt's attacks, but one battle axe could not match the dextrous press of two scimitars. Arkhan cursed again the rotted hand of Vecna, wishing he could grip a shield that might offer some protection or leverage against the onslaught.

Whenever the Oathbreaker could swing a blow himself, he imbued Fane-Eater with all Her power, his smites plied with hissing necrotic energy. Drizzt skipped and dodged as he could, and desperate became his ducks and dives to avoid the axe, for one of Arkhan's enhanced strikes stung as much as fifty of Drizzt's. Heavy cleaves came at the ranger's neck, chest, thighs, some raking across the mithril, others breaking the chain links and embedding the jagged battle-axe into muscle, blasting the tissue beneath with repulsive necrosis.

Finally, when Arkhan had no more magic left to burn for his smites, he looked upon Drizzt. The damn drow was still trying to smile.

'Do you feel like you're winning?' Drizzt asked.

Rage engulfed Arkhan then, and he went recklessly at the ranger, firing off big wide swings in rapid succession, frenzied by the impertinence of his enemy. Drizzt dodged the first few, and could easily have dodged several more, but he was gaining no advantage allowing himself to be backed up. He speared a scimitar through Arkhan's lowered defences, bringing him within reach of the bigger dragonborn. A mistake.

Fane-Eater caught Drizzt beneath his left arm, and he felt far too many bones break, the air knocked out of his lungs. The force took the dark elf off his feet and sent him crashing into the wall, scattering his broken body amongst the evil collection of weaponry. Arkhan came again, laughing now, covered in his own blood and barely able to see through all that was gushing from the many wounds to his head and face. But Arkhan, frenzied, seemed now to be hunting on taste alone: the taste of victory.

Drizzt struggled to his feet too slowly, gasping for breath, hearing only the irregular thunderclaps of his struggling heart in his ears. Arkhan kicked Drizzt in the chest, and then the might Fane-Eater came down once more, this time into Drizzt's arm. Into and through. With a hideous splintering of bone, Icingdeath clattered to the floor, still clutched in the drow's ebony fist. Drizzt watched it as if it belonged to someone else. His right arm was now mangled, neither cut nor break clean, as Arkhan had struck several inches below the elbow, leaving behind a jagged mess of flesh and bone.

Subconscious reflex alone saved Drizzt from Arkhan's killing blow, which was aimed squarely at the ranger's head, and he just ducked beneath it, almost losing his balance in the process. Drizzt took in a deep breath, sucking in as much sweet air as he could through his nose, and held it.

Dizzied, working solely on muscle memory and a desire not to perish in Avernus, Drizzt leapt up off the scattered weapon rack, flashing out a kick that caught the back of Fane-Eater, sending Arkhan following the battle-axes huge arc. The dragonborn spun just enough away from Drizzt, just enough for Arkhan to have to tilt his head back to keep his eyes on his slippery foe, something Drizzt had been counting on. Twinkle shot out with a speed Drizzt did not know he possessed, the scimitar in his left hand striking hard and true. The curved blade pierced one hateful red eye, and protruded from the other.

Arkhan knew a white light, and a moment after, nothingness.

Drizzt watched his enemy fall to the ground in a heap, watched him twitch for a moment, and then released his breath. Pain flooded every fibre of his being. The ugly stump at the end of his right arm screamed, but Drizzt refused to look at it, catching sight instead of the rotten hand of Vecna that Arkhan wore in place of his own missing limb.

He tore his gaze away, and moved to pick up his severed hand and Icingdeath. As Drizzt leant over he could have fallen, but he caught himself, knowing if he sat down now he would never get up again. He hobbled out of the armoury, heading down the stairs.

_It was done_, Drizzt thought. _The Oathbreaker was with his foul goddess now, and would be forever_.

Drizzt hobbled away. He needed to find Guenhwyvar, and they needed to get out of here.

Arkhan held very still as the Death Ward restored him to life. Shame burned him more vehemently than any of the gross wounds he had suffered. Playing dead. But he had lived. He had lived to serve Her longer still. He had fought Drizzt Do'Urden and lived, and there were few who could claim that in truth.


End file.
